Not long after I upgraded to an actual road bike, I decided to take another shot at riding with the Cool Kids, my serious road-riding friends. I'd never been able to keep up with them during a number of outings earlier in the year. But I had a new Felt Z5, and they lured me in by saying they were only going a flat 15 miles, a laughably low number. When I arrived at Chris the Nurse's house, she told me, "We're going up Talcott Notch and then over to Heublein Tower."

I live in Connecticut, not Colorado, but even by our relatively modest standards that's an entirely unflat route. I gamely pedaled along for a while, trailing farther and farther behind with each punishing ascent. Mark, the fearless leader of the Cool Kids, kept circling back to describe a land of milk and honey waiting over yonder hill, if I could just haul myself over it. Of course, waiting over yonder hill was…another hill.

Finally I turned back, legs burning. I rode home feeling soiled and compromised. I was sitting on a real road bike, but I still had a department-store-bike body.

So I found a different group ride. The shop where I bought my Felt runs a regular Tuesday-night ride, and people selfsort into A, B, and C groups. The ride is about 23 miles, and there's a charming no-cyclist-left-behind rule. Even if you are, like me, more appropriately enrolled in the C-minus group, the leader will dart back like a sheepdog and round you up. The faster Cs wait at preordained points.

On my first C ride, I settled in at the back with a young woman who, it turned out, really didn't understand how her gears worked. The leader, named Mark, just like the other one, drifted back and coached her until she started to get it, which was a wonderful moment of triumph for her but a little dispiriting for me because I was then in graver danger of finishing a distant last.

As we came down the last mile that night, I struggled, philosophically, with the question of whether to put on a burst of speed and pass a few people, just so I wouldn't stand out. I decided that seemed like the act of a psychologically needy man. Instead, I managed to slide in with the last clump of riders in a manner that looked more relaxed than I felt.

Afterward, as people hung around on the sidewalk, a few of us chatted about a ride being planned for a couple of nights hence. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that," I said. "Oh, no. You're totally capable of doing this," one guy said.

"Oh, no. You're totally capable of doing this," one guy said.

It was a little like telling me I was ready to cook in Gordon Ramsay's kitchen after watching me microwave a Lean Cuisine, but I was pleased anyway. Even though riding with groups of strangers was stressful at times, I still liked it. You feel compelled to keep up the pace, but it's impossible to disappoint anyone in any intimate way. And I love the sense of herd immunity, people ahead pointing to debris and yelling "Clear!" at intersections. At a stop sign, a guy carefully picked a Japanese beetleoff my back. So we had moved into great-ape grooming behavior.

I also appreciate the gallantry of the group leaders. Tuesday-Night Mark hovered over his charges like a mother hen. He's a fellow Felt rider, and he cruised next to me, praising my bike. "You're gonna fly on that thing," he said.

"But it has me on it," I demurred.

"Doesn't matter. In two weeks, you'll shock yourself."

Many C riders seemed to be experienced cyclists who didn't feel like doing anything racy. I grew wary of postride conversation. "You got 105 on that bike?" someone asked.

"I am too stupid to know the meaning of your question," I answered. With cyclists, I feel the Sodium Pentothal route is best. No point in trying to fool anyone.

Then, on a Friday night, the Cool Kids again talked me into joining them. Many of them were old friends, but we'd been estranged of late. They were training hard for century rides, while I'm still a soft, downy, cycling baby chick incubating in C-minus outings. "We're taking it easy tonight," said Chris. "Twenty miles, mostly flat."

"You always say that, and then it turns out you're crossing the Pyrenees," I said.

Before we left, they sat around pointedly moaning about nagging injuries. I realized they were trying to reassure me. As we started out, they assembled around me in a clearly preplanned way. Mark took the point, and Chris stayed behind me so I couldn't drop out. Her husband, Steve, stayed in the middle to chat. Our conversation consisted of his bringing up half a dozen topics and my saying "uh-huh" or "uh-uh." While riding, I try not to say anything that isn't also breathing.

We started up Talcott Notch again, but this time they turned after a short climb and plunged downward. On the way back, they started up Mountain Spring Road, a steep climb I was pretty sure I couldn't make. I offered my apologies, broke out of formation, and started home.

Ten minutes later, they roared back to surround me again. "We decided to turn around and stay with you," yelled Steve. "Solidarity forever!"

As we all rolled home together, I was unexpectedly touched. Who knew that bicycle chains pull at our hearts?

Colin wants to set a big goal for 2012, but needs suggestions. A century? A gran fondo? Send ideas to [email protected].